


Judicial Conduct

by the_wordbutler



Series: Motion Practice [41]
Category: Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Clip Show, Gen, Legal Drama, betting pools, motion practice universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-13
Updated: 2016-05-13
Packaged: 2018-06-08 02:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6835513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wordbutler/pseuds/the_wordbutler
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A review of last few years of the Suffolk County District Attorney's Office, as told by the seven judges who know them best.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Judicial Conduct

**Author's Note:**

> Remember how television shows used to feature clip-show episodes to catch up the viewers on a couple years of development? That's essentially what this story is: a refresher course for all of the major plot points between the start of the MPU and today. Also, it features all the judges, because I'm really fond of judges in general. And who isn't interested in the adventures of Judge Ilsa Smithe?
> 
> Thanks as always to my magnificent beta-readers, Jen and saranoh, who gladly read this ridiculousness. Because they're excellent people.

**January 2004**

Ilsa Smithe scans the room before rolling her lips together. “Should I be nervous?”

In front of her, one of the most well-appointed ballrooms in the capital—and probably in the state as a whole—spreads out like an old painting, full of heavy chandeliers and bright upholstery. What’s worse, more than a hundred people mill about the room, drifting from one conversation to another while sipping cocktails and champagne. Almost everyone wears a suit, and somewhere near the stage, she spots the Chief Justice’s unmistakable red hair.

Standing at her shoulder, Judge Patricia English—no, she reminds herself, Patty—shrugs. “Half the people here, you know from law school,” she says, adjusting her name badge. “And as for the other half, you’ll spot the useless blowhards soon enough.”

“And what about our district?” Ilsa asks. 

Patty frowns. “You already know Thea.”

“Thea’s not always great at lifting the veil of mystery. Deep down, I think she likes it.” Patty snorts, but Ilsa summons up just enough courage to catch her eyes. “I don’t want to stick my foot in my mouth at my first judicial conference,” she says. “If there’s anything you can tell me about the other judges, even our own, I’d—”

“How do you feel about friendly competition?”

Ilsa blinks. “What?”

“Nothing too stiff, of course,” Patty continues, ignoring Ilsa’s confusion. She snags two shrimp puffs from a passing waiter. “We don’t want to bankrupt one another. We just like a little . . . fun.” 

They stare at each other for a few seconds before Ilsa finally shrugs. “I like fun.”

Patty grins. “Then you’ll fit in just fine.”

 

**June 2012**

“Don’t see it,” Hamilton Dunbar says, shaking his head. “And frankly, knowing Phil Coulson? That is a beehive that you do _not_ poke.”

Ilsa shrugs as she fills her coffee cup. “You don’t have to participate,” she reminds him.

“Oh, participation in these little misadventures is optional? Excuse me while I notify the press.”

Richard Hammersmith rolls his eyes. “Again with the dramatics.” Hamilton waves him off to fill in another crossword puzzle clue, but Richard presses his lips into a line. 

Ilsa raises an eyebrow at Thea Nguyen, who shrugs.

And Richard, clueless to anything remotely interpersonal, says, “Tell me more about this ‘situation’ with Phil Coulson.”

The lounge shared by all six Suffolk County judges always reminds Ilsa of a hotel waiting room, with plush couches, suspiciously shiny tables, and art that changes with the season and at other, less-predictable intervals. Today, the fridge smells vaguely of spoiled tuna salad and a coffee ring on the front of _People_ mars Idris Elba’s beautiful face, but otherwise, life in the judge’s lounge feels exactly like every other day.

Exactly the reason Ilsa loves her job.

“We’re not sure,” Thea says, “but Phil’s practiced in this county a long time. Longer than the rest of the office, Fury included. And when you compare the last, what, ten years—”

“At least,” Ilsa agrees.

“—with the last two months, the only real difference is Clint Barton.”

“Oh, not _again_ ,” Rodney Brassels complains, shouldering through the door. He tosses a massive McDonalds bag down on the table, and Hamilton nudges it away with his pencil. “Do I need to remind you what happened when you tried to introduce Frost to— Oh, what is his name? Squirrelly ambulance chaser. Works for Lensherr.”

“Justin Hammer,” Patty provides, mouth full of egg salad.

Rodney grins as he flops into his chair. “Hammer, right! A disaster for the history books, courtesy of two of our own.”

Thea grumbles something unkind into her spinach salad, and Ilsa sighs. “To be fair,” she says, “I didn’t know he was obnoxious.”

“Only because he never practiced in front of you,” Richard points out. She wrinkles her nose, but the chief judge leans back in his armchair. He crosses his arms, his brow furrowing. “That said, Thea might be right. I’ve noticed the difference in Phil. He seems, I don’t know . . . Less tightly wound.”

Hamilton groans aloud. “Not you, too.”

Richard shrugs. “I call it like I see it, Hamilton. And to Ilsa’s point, you can always sit this one out.” He ignores Hamilton’s disgruntled huff to flip open a case file. “Put twenty on Phil and this Barton having some kind of tryst.”

Patty chokes on a potato chip. “Tryst?” she repeats. “Are you approximately eight hundred years old?”

“At least,” Hamilton drawls, drumming his pencil against his leg. “But for whatever it’s worth to you ladies, I’d like twenty dollars on the exact opposite outcome.”

 

**December 2012**

Tracey Rees scowls. “Stop laughing,” she commands, and Rodney obeys—for roughly two seconds. Because the instant he draws in another breath, his shoulders shake, and he starts snickering all over again. “You’re a bastard.”

“And Tony Stark is patently unlikeable, Tracey.” Tracey hides her sour face behind her wine glass, and Rodney shrugs. “I’ve never had the unique ‘pleasure’ of entertaining Mister Stark in my courtroom, but I’ve heard the stories. I can’t imagine him parenting a parakeet, never mind a child.”

“You don’t have to imagine it, Rod. It’s reality.” He snorts, nearly rolling his eyes, and she jabs a finger in Ilsa’s direction. “Tell him.”

Ilsa raises her hands. “As much as I like Bruce Banner, I’m not sure even his patience can withstand Tony Stark.”

Tracey huffs, muttering something about betrayal under her breath as she strides away. Rodney cocks an eyebrow. “No wager?” he asks.

Ilsa blinks. “Excuse me?”

“Usually when someone imagines a relationship between two attorneys, you and Thea swoop in with a spreadsheet and an envelope full of small bills.” He sips his whiskey. “Seems like you’re wasting an opportunity.”

She scowls at him. “Are you really suggesting that I start a betting pool tonight?” she demands. “At the judicial branch Christmas party? Surrounded by judges who might be a little less—” The chief judge of Clarion County wanders by with his wife, and she lowers her voice. “You know how some of the other judges are,” she hisses.

Rodney hums. “Never stopped you before.” She sighs, and he tips his glass in her direction. “If you’re not interested in dragging your old friend Tracey into your usual excitement, that’s fine,” he says after a beat. “But I’ll say this for her keen observational eye: I can imagine Stark and Banner as a couple.”

Ilsa nearly chokes on her gin and tonic. “You just said you couldn’t imagine it,” she retorts.

“No, I said I can’t imagine Stark as a parent. As a partner . . . ” He shrugs, and Ilsa grits her teeth. “If you decide to start the pool, I’ll put fifteen dollars on a Stark-Banner pairing.”

She squints at him over the rims of her glasses. “You’re serious?”

He places a hand in the center of his chest. “As serious as Phil Coulson’s eventual stress-induced heart attack."

Ilsa waits until he wanders over to the dessert table to fish her cell phone out of her ugly holiday sweater. _Rodney thinks we should bet on whether Stark and Banner will turn into a thing_ , she texts to Thea.

_Well, we can’t disappoint Rodney_ , Thea replies a minute later. _Ten for me on them never dating, and twenty for Tracey on them marrying within the year._

 

**May 2013**

“You’re hallucinating,” Patty says around a mouthful of hummus. “They wore you down, and now, you’ve lost your mind.”

“My faculties are fully intact, thank you,” Hamilton snaps, crossing his arms. Thea raises her eyebrows at Ilsa, and Ilsa shrugs. “Nathan Summers, on the other hand—”

“He’s the silver fox who’s built like a panzer, isn’t he?” Richard asks. Everyone glances over at him, and he blinks. “What? He’s in my courtroom sometimes. Hard to miss him, really.”

“And we all know how much you like a silver fox,” Patty comments with a smirk. 

Richard snorts and rolls his eyes. 

“Yes, fine, do tease each other,” Hamilton complains as he flops into his favorite armchair. “Ignore my deduction about the newly kindled love between Summers and that lunatic.”

Rodney sighs as he digs a baked potato out of his fast food bag. “Wilson’s harmless.”

“Are we talking about the same Wilson?” Thea demands. “Because last time Wade Wilson showed up in my courtroom, he compared an illegal search and seizure to when college students kill off fake grandparents to avoid their final exams.”

Ilsa frowns. “How?” she wonders.

“I still don’t understand it!” Thea returns, throwing up her hands. “That man needs a psychological evaluation, not a boyfriend.” She leans back in her chair and crosses her arms. “Ten bucks says that Hamilton’s lost his marbles.”

Hamilton snorts. “I will encourage them to invite you to their eventual wedding,” he replies, reaching for his wallet.

 

**October 2013**

Thea shakes her head. "No. I am not participating this time. It's too ridiculous, even for one of our little—"

She gestures helplessly, and Tracey immediately frowns at Ilsa. "Did you break her?"

"I just sent out an e-mail!" Ilsa defends as she locks her phone. "A _work_ e-mail, too, and since we're on vacation—"

"You can wait until I'm drunk to trap me in your most outrageous bet to date." Ilsa rolls her eyes, but her friend ignores her to swivel her bar stool toward Tracey. "Picture this," she says, her voice serious enough that Tracey abandons her piña colada. "An assistant district attorney who already adopted one orphan becomes the temporary foster parent to two more after a tragic house fire. Interestingly, this guy's husband is an insane egotist with more money than Donald Trump."

Ilsa scowls. "Really?" 

"He covered that habeas petition in my courtroom last week, Ilsa, and I almost threw my gavel at him." Remembering Thea's rant—and, more importantly, the way the court security officer had nodded sagely as she retold the story—Ilsa decides to shut up. Thea, on the other hand, leans on her elbows. "Based on all that information," she says, looking directly at Tracey, "do you think they'd keep the two new kids?"

Tracey stirs her drink with a swizzle stick. "You _do_ remember that I pocketed most of the winnings last time we bet on Stark and Banner, right?" 

Thea frowns. "Yes, but—"

"And you _were_ there for our last trip to Vegas? At Caesar's Palace?"

Thea's brow furrows. "From the parts I remember, yes," she admits, and Ilsa almost chokes on her beer. "Why?"

"Because you know I'm a fan of double-or-nothing stakes." She smirks at Ilsa. "Forty dollars says that Stark and Banner are the permanent foster placement within a month."

Thea groans. "I'm not drunk enough for you two conspiring against me," she declares, and flags down the bartender for another round.

 

**March 2014**

"July 7," Richard says, not glancing up from his book.

Ilsa flips back a week in her planner and shakes her head. "Sorry, but the chief of security claimed that three weeks ago." He huffs, his nose wrinkling. "I can offer you dates on either side, or the next week. And since Rodney abandoned Flag Day—"

"Because now that they've announced a proper due date," Hamilton comments, "Flag Day is a fool's errand."

"—most of June is wide open." She twirls her pen. "Any of those strike your fancy?"

Over on one of the couches, Patty smirks. "You're starting to sound like a blackjack dealer."

"Because she claimed the day Maria's _actually_ due. The more bets on other days, the more likely she'll clean up." Ilsa shoots Thea a dirty look, but her friend just steals a few of Patty's Doritos. "I'm still paying for lunches with my winnings from the Odinson baby."

Hamilton scowls. "Only because you eat in that trough they call a cafeteria," he mutters.

Thea shrugs and crunches down on a chip, but in his favorite chair, Richard drums his fingers against the spine of his book. Finally, he glances over at Ilsa. "What does the end of July look like, if you don't mind me asking?"

"Past her due date?" When he nods, she jumps forward a few pages. "The assistant county commissioner picked July 20, and Melinda grabbed the last day of the month—"

"Doubling down on her husband's bet, no doubt," Hamilton grumbles.

"—but otherwise, you're all clear."

Richard hums in thought for a second before deciding, "July 28. My daughter's birthday. Even if I lose, she'll appreciate the gesture."

Patty rolls her eyes. "For the last time, she's in Boca Raton, not dead."

Richard shrugs. "For how often she visits, she might as well be."

Thea snorts hard enough that she chokes on her next stolen chip, and Ilsa smiles. 

At least, until Rodney bursts into the room, the scent of Burger King following him, and declares, "I've reconsidered my position on Flag Day!"

 

**September 2014**

"Just wait. Rogers and Barnes will find their next baby on the doorstep, like in a movie."

Ilsa shoots Rodney a tight look, but he shrugs and dips another celery stick in his blue cheese dressing. Three tables away, the whole of the Suffolk County District Attorney's Office solemnly discuss— Well, Ilsa's still trying to work out the details, but something about Coulson and Barton raising their nephew.

Maybe?

For the first time, she curses how professionally Banner and Odinson behave in her courtroom.

"Or maybe a long-lost relative will die and leave their toddler behind," Rodney muses, still ignoring Ilsa's glare. "I think Barnes has a brother. I can see it now: the call in the middle of the night, Barnes rushing to be at his brother's side just before he passes—"

"What Jodi Picoult novel did you finish this time?" He blinks innocently, and she jabs a potato wedge at him. "You can play dumb all you want, Rod, but I've seen the 'collection' you hide behind your statutory supplements. You're worse than Richard and his westerns."

"Says the woman who binge-watched _Orphan Black_ between hearings last week," he counters, and she holds his gaze for three full seconds before reaching for her soda. He smirks. "Besides, you're missing the point. There's another betting circle right over there, ripe for the taking."

He nods toward the table filled with attorneys, and she frowns. "Didn't you hear them? It sounds like Barton's brother might do prison time." When he raises his eyebrows expectantly, she shakes her head. "No. Not this time around. It's in poor taste."

"Or is it because of how much you like them both?" The knowing twist in Rodney's voice settles in her stomach, and she picks at her last hot wing. "I know they grew on you," he presses. "During the Killgrave nightmare and again, with that girl."

"Kate Bishop," Ilsa says automatically. He purses his lips, eyebrows still raised, and she huffs out a breath. "I like our stupid games," she admits, "but this time around, it feels too personal. Worse than when we bet on Banner's foster kids—and trust me, if I'd known the details, I never . . . " 

She shakes her head again, and Rodney studies her before shrugging. "Fair enough," he replies. "But for the record, I'm pretty sure they'll end up keeping this child for a long time."

 

**January 2019**

Phil Coulson—that is, the newly minted Judge Phillip J. Coulson—frowns out at the gaudy ballroom and the throngs of unfamiliar faces. "Maybe this is a stupid question," he says hesitantly, "but should I be nervous?” 

Ilsa shrugs. “Depends on how you feel about a little friendly competition,” she replies, and loops an arm around his shoulders.

**Author's Note:**

> Last weekend, I visited Sara in Kentucky. I also took prompts for the [Promtucky Derby](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/tagged/promptucky-derby). You should read them. They're pretty great. 
> 
> The newest MPU posting schedule can be found [here](http://the-wordbutler.tumblr.com/post/143698659847/behold-the-first-official-posting-schedule-for). A summary: in two weeks, I will start posting Presumptions, which is the next big story. Brace yourself, friends. It will kick you in the face.


End file.
